


pange, lingua

by isopsephic (kyrilu)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Choking, Community: daredevilkink, Dubious Consent, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/isopsephic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley puts a thumb on Matt’s chin and murmurs, “I want to make you cry from this. Just touching.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	pange, lingua

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=470485#cmt470485) on daredevilkink.

Wesley likes prying stories from him. It doesn’t take much to make Matt talk whenever Wesley puts gun metal to the hollow of his bare back, whispering threats to him about his friends, and eventually, Matt slowly relents. He closes his eyes and tries to fall back into his spoken memories. Matt whispers, quietly, of his accident and of his father and of his training, while Wesley drops praises to the side of his throat--half-reverent murmurs of  _good boy, keep talking, just feel this._  
  
Wesley likes touching his face, too. Tugging the hair tucked behind his ears, and then touching his eyelids as if it’s a laying on of hands. These hands don’t seem to stop, tingling on the surface of his skin and igniting his heightened senses like fire. It feels like a blessing: like the sweep of ash across his forehead, Ash Wednesday, branding him with something soft and dirty.  
  
It’s the sensitivity that Wesley likes, Matt knows. This hasn’t devolved into anything carnal, into anything base, stuck at the pretense of petting him like a vulnerable animal. But it might as well be - the touches make Matt limp in Wesley’s arms, hyperfocused by the steady commands and the careful caresses, and he hates it. Tries to hold back his uneven gasps.   
  
When he finally gives in and begs-- _stop, don’t touch me like this, please hurt me instead, punch me, hit me_ \--Wesley shakes his head, and says, “No. It wouldn’t be fun that way at all.” He puts a thumb on Matt’s chin and murmurs, “I want to make you cry from this. Just touching.”  
  
“I’m already giving you enough,” Matt says. “I won’t--”  
  
_“You will.”_  The words are sharp. Wesley’s thumb circles around Matt’s cheeks, rubbing at his stubble, and then slips into his mouth. Matt can feel the edge of Wesley’s nail hanging off his lip, a blunt crescent scritch-scratching in a gentle line.  
  
“Put your tongue out,” Wesley says, quietly. “You’re a good Catholic boy, Matthew, aren’t you? It’s just like communion. Just a sacrament. Stick it out a little. There you go. That’s it.”  
  
Wesley’s thumb is on his tongue. Dry, warm skin on smooth slick wetness, slowly rubbing the tip as if Wesley is savoring him. Matt is on his knees like this, head tilted up, Wesley’s finger in his mouth, and he makes a half-rasping sound that could be a protest, but it’s caught in his throat instead.  
  
Then his thumb probes halfway on Matt’s tongue. It tastes like something bitter, something metallic, like gunpowder from the gun that Wesley had been holding earlier. It starts to move in a circle, massaging the flesh on the underside of his tongue. Wesley’s four other fingers grips Matt’s cheek for support as he forces the motion to deepen, and Matt hears himself letting out aborted cries:  _ah---nn---please_  as the thumb sweeps over and over and over.  
  
Matt’s drooling. There’s moisture from the edges of his mouth, coating parts of Wesley’s hand. Wesley withdraws his thumb, reaching upward--pressing his splayed hand against Matt’s eyes and forehead--and Matt can feel his own spittle cool there, on his eyelids, on his eyelashes. He blinks at the wetness, and it feels like Wesley’s promised tears.  
  
“You were good,” Wesley whispers. “But I’m not done yet. Stay still, Matthew.”  
  
Wesley hooks two fingers--his index finger and his middle--against Matt’s inner cheek. Strokes there, and when he returns to the flesh underneath Matt’s tongue, pressing down, Matt gasps against the pressure.  _I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe._  
  
“Take it,” Wesley says, a soothing command, and he  _shoves_. His two fingers take up space in the opening column of Matt’s throat, invasive and stinging, and Matt lets out a sob. It hurts, but there’s something almost good about this that he can’t explain, makes his cock hard and makes him lean into Wesley’s other palm, which is buried into the roots of his hair in contrasting tenderness.  
  
Downward, Wesley’s fingers curl, a slight movement, and Matt’s throat constricts. He chokes, a scratchy  _haa--haa--nnnn_ , his throat rough and pained.  
  
Wesley pulls his hand away with a smile.  
  
Sharp tears are burning from the corners of his eyes. Matt finds the desperation on the tip of his tongue--the ash is  _here_ , he thinks--and says, “Thank you,” with his eyes closed.  
  
It ends like it always ends. He falls back into Wesley’s arms, drained and hollow and numb.


End file.
